labyrinth story

rnrur.riiirsJup TheTYAIiirsri JUSTIN ROBINSON RUSSELL BRADBURY-CARLIN

my teacher kept a house of plastic dolls 9-'he Minotaur was in my class in fourth grade. He sat in the back of the that held a lamb's brain floating in ajar I room and only spoke when asked a direct question. His voice was

gravelly and deep as if his lungs were a cave and his throat was filled with I placed the dolls on a plate sharp rocks. Still, if you listened closely, he sounded like a nine year old, & offered them to the brain too. Maybe it was the way he paused between some words—like he was

embarrassed to speak out loud. cracked mirror they cried One time I was in a reading group with him. We each went around and slipping into the water read a chapter of a book aloud. Our group was reading a story about a

farmer during a drought and how he managed to make a living. The —my reflection split Minotaur was a bad reader. He mispronounced words all the time, calling into a thousand faces "fertilizer," "fer-til-zer." And "combine harvester," "com-bin harv-ster."

The idea behind a reading group was that we learned to be better readers by swallowed by each fold correcting each other. No one said anything about the Minotaur's mistakes.

Everyone was too afraid. As he read this particular story, he kept stumbling over the word

"aquifer." He would start to say the word quickly, like he was making a running leap, but then stumble and stammer in the middle: "Aaaa-qwee... Aaaa-qwiii..." Finally I grew frustrated, since the word came up about twenty times in the chapters he read. I leaned toward him and hissed the correct pronunciation. He glanced at me with his naturally deep-furrowed brow. For a moment I wasn't sure if he was going to snarl at me or threaten to take a bite out of my arm. Then he turned back to the book and continued reading, pronouncing "aquifer" correctly. When he finished his chapter, he leaned toward me and whispered "thank you." And at that volume, the raspiness of his voice disappeared. He sounded exactly like any other boy in my class.

That was last year, though. The Minotaur isn't in my class now. So, I only see him in passing as he scuttles down the edge of the halls on the way to lunch or on his way to the buses at the end of school. As soon as the reading group broke apart on that day in fourth grade, the Minotaur returned to ignoring me. And I never said anything or made eye-contact with him. We both acted as if we had never had that moment of direct communication. But I hadn't forgotten it.

Some kids say that they dream of the Minotaur. And in their dreams he is much larger than he really is. In reality, he is only a head taller than the tallest kid in the school—Mike Duncan—but he is thick and wide. He

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seems to almost spill over the edge of his desk. Chairs threaten to crack into splinters under him. But in their dreams, they say, he is even larger, like a buffalo. And he charges. He runs at them with hot furious steam trailing from his wide round nostrils. Strings of spittle slip from the corner of his mouth and soaks the fur that runs down his back. And then he stops right in front of them. The kids say they are too paralyzed with fear to move. They just stand there while this enormous boy--more like a man in their dreams—with a bull's head towers over them, his eyes ablaze with menace. Many kids, perhaps all of them, have had the same exact dream. Except me.

I crossed the basketball court at recess on a spring morning to find the Minotaur amongst The Boulders. The Boulders are a bunch of large rocks at the back of the school. The Minotaur spends all of his time there during recess. None of the other kids go there.

I am sure my face was flushed red with the effort to hold back the pain in my stomach. And holding back tears, too. Tim Skane had punched me in the gut. Hard. Tim seemed to enjoy leaving his mark on kids. He usually picked on one or two random kids at a time. Then, he would hurt them whenever the opportunity came along. If you were walking near him and the recess teacher had his or her back turned, he would pounce—almost always one solid stone-fisted punch. He often tried for an eye or the jaw. His pleasure seemed to be tattooing kids with black and blue marks. Sometimes you could make out the outline of his knuckles in the different tones of dried blood below the surface of your skin. Today, I saw it coming. I wasn't even near Tim. He saw Mr. Harrington move to break-up a pushing fight between some sixth graders near the parking lot. Tim raced at me like a shark. I brought my hands up to my face and he saw the opening I left. His fist slammed into my belly full-force. Every ounce of breath was expelled from my lungs. I fell to the ground and sipped in small nibbles of air as my diaphragm felt crushed.

"More soon, runt," he hissed. Then Tim turned and left, speeding back to his lurch with his three

minions to act as if nothing had happened. I wanted to call out to him, "Why me?" But I knew why. I was small. I

was vulnerable. I was an easy target. As I approached The Boulders, I saw the Minotaur's hunched back

peek up from behind one of the rocks. He was wearing a tightly stretched t- shirt—they probably didn't make any that would fit him loosely. Brown curly fur spilled out from the neck of the shirt and from the back of his thick arms. My body was still as hairless as a baby's. His body was smeared with brown wiry hair that resembled steel wool.

I was cautious as I approached the Minotaur. I had never seen him talk to any other kid except for me that one time. And I had never seen him harm or threaten anyone. But, his sheer size and the shape of his face made him look ready to kill: his broad heavy nose, deep-set eyes that were large

and round, his eyebrows—arched downward in a constant look of anger. And his hot breath. I remember, when the class was silent during a test in fourth grade, that I could hear his heavy breathing.

I was determined, though. I needed the Minotaur's help. My foot must have kicked a small rock by mistake. Or I coughed or

was breathing too heavy. But as I came closer, there was a sound and the Minotaur's head popped up and he stared at me. The pace of his breathing increased. I could see myself in his wet wide eyes standing on the other side of the rock between us. I couldn't tell if he was startled or furious. I thought about lifting the back of my hand up, the way I would to a cautious dog who I wasn't sure was going to try and attack me or not.

Instead, I found myself speaking. I hadn't planned what I was going to say. The words just seemed to drop from my mouth.

"Kind of hot out, huh?" That's when I noticed that he had a huge clump of soil in his hand, and

his thick lips were caked with moist dirt. "So," he said in that deep cavernous voice. I didn't know what to say after that. The Minotaur stared at me. He chewed the dirt in his mouth. I could

hear the cracking and scrapping of small pebbles and grit in his teeth. His nostrils flared and contracted as he breathed.

"Tim Skane just punched me in the stomach. I think he's out to get me. I'm wondering if you'd be a kind of bodyguard for me. You know, hang around with me in the halls so Tim will know not to pick on me. We don't have to talk or anything. Just walk beside me."

The Minotaur scooped up another handful of dirt and shoved it into his mouth without dropping his stare. He wiped his moist, muddy lips on his hairy arm.

"Sure," he said.

The next afternoon, I ran up to the Minotaur as soon as school ended. Our classrooms were close together, so we had to walk in the same direction to get to the buses. I sidled up beside him and we walked as if we were buddies.

Many of the other students watched us as we ambled down the halls— they kept their eyes partially averted--looking, but not too directly, like glancing up at the sun.

Then I saw Tim, plowing his way down the hall with his buddies. He was a battleship that split through the students like the ocean. He kept an even, unwavering pace--until he caught sight of me and the Minotaur. Tim slowed a bit, but kept moving. The constant sneer on his face faded for a second, then returned.

This was all I wanted: for Tim to see me and the Minotaur together. For him to remember that image every time he considered marking me with his fist. I underestimated Tim, though. I thought he was going to make a wide-

86 1 The Minotaur Russell Bradbury-Carlin 87

arc around us, like most kids did around the Minotaur. Instead, Tim set his gaze forward to the end of the hail and plowed forward—right between me and the Minotaur. And the Minotaur stepped aside, letting Tim and the wake of his buddies pass. I wasn't expecting this to say the least, so Tim brushed right passed me—making sure to swing his elbow, hard, against my arm. I fell backward and slammed into the lockers along the wall. I could feel the throb of a bruise settling under my skin. Tim let out a quiet chuckle as he cruised down the hall.

I turned to the Minotaur. "What happened?" I hissed. "I thought you were going to help me. Why did you move out of the way?"

The Minotaur kept walking to the buses parked at the front of the school. He didn't even look down at me. "Because," he grunted. Then he jumped up onto the bottom step of the bus. I stopped in the doorway and watched him lumber to the back corner and squeeze himself into the too- small seat.

Then something odd happened. 1 expected, of course, that 1 would remain Tim's punching bag for a

long time. He had broken my plan, and now he would teach me to never try to plot against him again.

Two or three days after Tim's victory, my best friend Peter and I were hanging out by the swing sets talking about this new horror movie that neither of our parents would let us see.

One of the things that made Peter my best friend was that he said nothing about what had happened with the Minotaur. Some kids made fun of me—yelled "dead man walking" as I passed them. I knew some were also amazed that I had even stood near the Minotaur. Peter must have known that I was embarrassed that my plan had not worked, and that I was afraid of Tim's revenge. I knew he desperately wanted to ask me about the Minotaur. But he just acted like nothing had ever happened.

Tim was standing around the basement door of the school with his friends at recess. I could see him talking and gesturing with his hands. His buddies were laughing. But every once in a while, I saw him glance over at me. He'd look and then turn away—as if he was afraid to stare too long.

Tim never approached me. He never elbowed me in the hall, again. He didn't wait for me near the buses at the end of the day. it seemed as if Tim was trying to purposely avoid me.

Then, Tim wasn't in school for a few days. This wasn't uncommon because he would often skip school. But the rumor that rippled amongst the students was that he had gone crazy. That he was in a hospital. No one was sure when he was going to come back.

The days turned into weeks. The school seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Tim's friends kept to themselves hid in corners and avoided others. None of them rose up to take his place.

And during this time, I hung out a lot after school with Peter and our other friend, Eric. Neither of them ever asked me about that day with the Minotaur. They did speculate endlessly about Tim, though. They spun tales of lobotomies and electro-shock treatments. I just listened and laughed in the places where they expected me to laugh. I wasn't sure what had happened to Tim, but somehow I felt kind of responsible.

Also during this time, I ignored the Minotaur. He didn't seem to notice. The Minotaur walked to classes with his eyes down and spent recesses up in The Boulders, and treated me like he treated any other kid in the school.

It was about a month later that Tim Skane returned to school. He was a different kid. His face was pale and slack. His eyes, which used to be dark and piercing, were now clouded. He walked down the hall slumped over and was visibly skittish. He seemed broken.

Finally, one day, Peter whispered to me at lunch that he had heard Tim's buddy, Mike Sawyer, talking to one of the older kids.

"The Minotaur infected Tim's dreams," Peter told me. "For a couple of weeks, he attacked him in his sleep."

Peter glanced around. "The Minotaur ripped Tim to shreds and devoured him every night," he

continued. "Tim said he could feel every claw tear at him and the Minotaur's teeth dig deep into his flesh. Tim didn't sleep for weeks. He was too afraid."

Tim did, it turns out, go crazy.

The next day at recess I made my way up to The Boulders. I heard the Minotaur snuffling and chomping as he ate handfuls of soil.

"You did help me," I said. The Minotaur lifted his large head up from behind a rock and he glared

at me. "Yes. It seems I did." "Why didn't you tell me you were going to do that? Why'd you let me

think you weren't going to help me?" The Minotaur snorted. Puffs of moist breath expelled from his nostrils.

"What do you think I am?" He asked. "What do you mean?" "Am I kid who is a monster? Or, a monster who is a kid?" I scratched my head. "I don't know. I never really thought about it.,, "You may believe that, but I don't think that is really true." I wasn't sure how to respond. Was he right? "And why do you think you don't dream about me?" He asked. I shrugged. Then the Minotaur turned his back to me and leaned down. He flicked

away some stones with his huge thick fingers until he cleared a patch of dirt. Then he sank all of his fingers in and pulled up a hunk of soil, which he

88 1 The Minotaur Russell Bradbury-Carlin 1 89

placed in his mouth. Long threads of dust-covered drool stretched down from his lips.

The next night I dreamed about the Minotaur for the first time. In my dream, though, he was actually smaller than he really is. He was just about my size. He was standing on a hill of tall grass. It was a brightly colored spring day. A warm breeze ran through my hair. I ran up to the Minotaur, who stood and waited for me. His head and shoulders were less heavy. His thick coarse hair was thinner and more matted. His eyes and brow protruded less. He looked, actually, more like a boy.

When I reached him, a kind of smile seemed to stray over his lips. He leaned toward me and tapped me lightly on the shoulder.

"Tag!" His voice was still gravelly, but lighter. Then the Minotaur turned and ran toward a patch of trees at the bottom of the hill.

I paused for a moment, at first unsure what to do. Then I saw him glance back at me with an arch in his eyebrow.

took off and chased after him. He wasn't going to get away—untagged---if I could help it.

I uuii uriiiiiJLII!1Iimu

I I1T!ZI iD]T11 R11J

LISA CHEBY

This message is not for me:

"Just thinking of you and hope things will go smoother for you and love you.

A slayer with Jàmily and friends wasn 'tin the brochure:

"sorry, off by one digit, please delete me"

Without a slayer, you are just pretty much watching

And without a spinster and Halloween cats, the matchmakers are pretty much on

a rant, no room for logic:

on New Year's Eve someone's mother called me

by mistake

I remembered my mother is dead

when there was no one to make me tea or bury me in the crypt of his body

"You can 't keep trying to make everything work with one big gesture

or by publishing a book of poems to distract from this:"

90 1 The Minotaur 91

11 TIhYA hitimwi 141

The Minotaur was in my class in fourth grade. He sat in the back of the room and only spoke when asked a direct question. His voice was gravelly and deep as if his lungs were a cave and his throat was filled with sharp rocks. Still, if you listened closely, he sounded like a nine year old, too. Maybe it was the way he paused between some words—like he was embarrassed to speak out loud.

One time I was in a reading group with him. We each went around and read a chapter of a book aloud. Our group was reading a story about a farmer during a drought and how he managed to make a living. The Minotaur was a bad reader. He mispronounced words all the time, calling "fertilizer," "fer-til-zer." And "combine harvester," "corn-bin harv-ster." The idea behind a reading group was that we learned to be better readers by correcting each other. No one said anything about the Minotaur's mistakes. Everyone was too afraid.

As he read this particular story, he kept stumbling over the word "aquifer." He would start to say the word quickly, like he was making a running leap, but then stumble and stammer in the middle: "Aaaa-qwee... Aaaa-qwiii..." Finally I grew frustrated, since the word came up about twenty times in the chapters he read. I leaned toward him and hissed the correct pronunciation. He glanced at me with his naturally deep-furrowed brow. For a moment I wasn't sure if he was going to snarl at me or threaten to take a bite out of my arm. Then he turned back to the book and continued reading, pronouncing "aquifer" correctly. When he finished his chapter, he leaned toward me and whispered "thank you." And at that volume, the raspiness of his voice disappeared. He sounded exactly like any other boy in my class.

That was last year, though. The Minotaur isn't in my class now. So, I only see him in passing as he scuttles down the edge of the halls on the way to lunch or on his way to the buses at the end of school. As soon as the reading group broke apart on that day in fourth grade, the Minotaur returned to ignoring me. And I never said anything or made eye-contact with him. We both acted as if we had never had that moment of direct communication. But I hadn't forgotten it.

Some kids say that they dream of the Minotaur. And in their dreams he is much larger than he really is. In reality, he is only a head taller than the tallest kid in the school—Mike Duncan but he is thick and wide. He

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us desk. Chairs threaten to crack into and round, his eyebrows—arched downward in a constant look of anger. is, they say, he is even larger, like a And his hot breath. I remember, when the class was silent during a test in hem with hot furious steam trailing fourth grade, that I could hear his heavy breathing. A spittle slip from the corner of his I was determined, though. I needed the Minotaur's help. i his back. And then he stops right in My foot must have kicked a small rock by mistake. Or I coughed or o paralyzed with fear to move. They was breathing too heavy. But as I came closer, there was a sound and the s boy—more like a man in their Minotaur's head popped up and he stared at me. The pace of his breathing r them, his eyes ablaze with menace, increased. I could see myself in his wet wide eyes standing on the other side id the same exact dream. Except me. of the rock between us. I couldn't tell if he was startled or furious. I thought

about lifting the back of my hand up, the way I would to a cautious dog who ss on a spring morning to find the I wasn't sure was going to try and attack me or not. loulders are a bunch of large rocks at Instead, I found myself speaking. I hadn't planned what I was going to spends all of his time there during say. The words just seemed to drop from my mouth.

"Kind of hot out, huh?" with the effort to hold back the pain That's when I noticed that he had a huge clump of soil in his hand, and too. Tim Skane had punched me in his thick lips were caked with moist dirt.

aving his mark on kids. He usually "So," he said in that deep cavernous voice. a time. Then, he would hurt them I didn't know what to say after that. If you were walking near him and The Minotaur stared at me. He chewed the dirt in his mouth. I could turned, he would pounce—almost hear the cracking and scrapping of small pebbles and grit in his teeth. His

Ic often tried for an eye or the jaw. nostrils flared and contracted as he breathed. kids with black and blue marks. "Tim Skane just punched me in the stomach. I think he's out to get me.

time of his knuckles in the different I'm wondering if you'd be a kind of bodyguard for me. You know, hang )f your skin. Today, I saw it coming. around with me in the halls so Tim will know not to pick on me. We don't rrington move to break-up a pushing have to talk or anything. Just walk beside me." he parking lot. Tim raced at me like The Minotaur scooped up another handful of dirt and shoved it into his ce and he saw the opening I left. His mouth without dropping his stare. He wiped his moist, muddy lips on his Every ounce of breath was expelled hairy arm. sipped in small nibbles of air as my "Sure," he said.

The next afternoon, I ran up to the Minotaur as soon as school ended. Our ig back to his lurch with his three classrooms were close together, so we had to walk in the same direction to d. get to the buses. I sidled up beside him and we walked as if we were

ne?" But I knew why. I was small. I buddies. Many of the other students watched us as we ambled down the halls—

saw the Minotaur's hunched back they kept their eyes partially averted—looking, but not too directly, like -Ic was wearing a tightly stretched t- glancing up at the sun. that would fit him loosely. Brown Then I saw Tim, plowing his way down the hail with his buddies. He shirt and from the back of his thick was a battleship that split through the students like the ocean. He kept an

baby's. His body was smeared with even, unwavering pace—until he caught sight of me and the Minotaur. Tim ol. slowed a bit, but kept moving. The constant sneer on his face faded for a Minotaur. I had never seen him talk second, then returned. ie time. And I had never seen him This was all I wanted: for Tim to see me and the Minotaur together. For size and the shape of his face made him to remember that image every time he considered marking me with his nose, deep-set eyes that were large fist. I underestimated Tim, though. I thought he was going to make a wide-

Russell Bradbury-Carlin 1 87

nd the Minotaur. Instead, Tim set his And during this time, I hung out a lot after school with Peter and our d plowed forward—right between me other friend, Eric. Neither of them ever asked me about that day with the

stepped aside, letting Tim and the Minotaur. They did speculate endlessly about Tim, though. They spun tales pecting this to say the least, so Tim of lobotomies and electro-shock treatments. I just listened and laughed in to swing his elbow, hard, against my the places where they expected me to laugh. I wasn't sure what had

:o the lockers along the wall. I could happened to Tim, but somehow I felt kind of responsible. r my skin. Tim let out a quiet chuckle Also during this time, I ignored the Minotaur. He didn't seem to notice.

The Minotaur walked to classes with his eyes down and spent recesses up in happened?" I hissed. "I thought you The Boulders, and treated me like he treated any other kid in the school. iove out of the way?" he buses parked at the front of the It was about a month later that Tim Skane returned to school. He was a me. "Because," he grunted. Then he different kid. His face was pale and slack. His eyes, which used to be dark e bus. I stopped in the doorway and and piercing, were now clouded. He walked down the hall slumped over er and squeeze himself into the too- and was visibly skittish. He seemed broken.

Finally, one day, Peter whispered to me at lunch that he had heard Tim's buddy, Mike Sawyer, talking to one of the older kids.

"The Minotaur infected Tim's dreams," Peter told me. "For a couple of Id remain Tim's punching bag for a weeks, he attacked him in his sleep." I now he would teach me to never try Peter glanced around.

"The Minotaur ripped Tim to shreds and devoured him every night," he tory, my best friend Peter and I were continued. "Tim said he could feel every claw tear at him and the g about this new horror movie that Minotaur's teeth dig deep into his flesh. Tim didn't sleep for weeks. He was

too afraid." ter my best friend was that he said Tim did, it turns out, go crazy. h the Minotaur. Some kids made fun s I passed them. 1 knew some were The next day at recess I made my way up to The Boulders. I heard the tear the Minotaur. Peter must have Minotaur snuffling and chomping as he ate handfuls of soil. plan had not worked, and that I was "You did help me," I said.

sperately wanted to ask me about the The Minotaur lifted his large head up from behind a rock and he glared g had ever happened. at me. "Yes. It seems I did." sement door of the school with his "Why didn't you tell me you were going to do that? Why'd you let me ng and gesturing with his hands. His think you weren't going to help me?" in a while, I saw him glance over at The Minotaur snorted. Puffs of moist breath expelled from his nostrils.

if he was afraid to stare too long. "What do you think I am?" He asked. ier elbowed me in the hall, again. He "What do you mean?" e end of the day. It seemed as if Tim "Am I kid who is a monster? Or, a monster who is a kid?"

I scratched my head. "I don't know. I never really thought about it." "You may believe that, but I don't think that is really true."

lays. This wasn't uncommon because I wasn't sure how to respond. Was he right? nor that rippled amongst the students "And why do you think you don't dream about me?" He asked. was in a hospital. No one was sure I shrugged.

Then the Minotaur turned his back to me and leaned down. He flicked ;chool seemed to breathe a collective away some stones with his huge thick fingers until he cleared a patch of mselves—hid in corners and avoided dirt. Then he sank all of his fingers in and pulled up a hunk of soil, which he

place.

Russell Bradbury-Carlin 1 89

dust-covered drool stretched down Love Lesson N2014 from

Minotaur for the first time. In my Buffy the Vampire Slayer r than he really is. He was just about tall grass. It was a brightly colored LISA CHEBY

h my hair. I ran up to the Minotaur, :1 and shoulders were less heavy. His matted. His eyes and brow protruded Dy. die seemed to stray over his lips. He This message is not for me: y on the shoulder. fly, but lighter. Then the Minotaur "Just thinking of you and hope it the bottom of the hill. things will go smoother insure what to do. Then I saw him for you and love iebrow. you."

igged—if I could help it. A slayer with family andfriends wasn't in the brochure

"sorry, off by one digit, please delete me"

Without a slayer, you are just pretty much watching

And without a spinster and Halloween cats, the matchmakers are pretty much on

a rant, no room for logic:

on New Year's Eve someone's mother called me

by mistake

I remembered my mother is dead

when there was no one to make me tea or bury me in the crypt of his body

"You can't keep trying to make everything work with one big gesture

or by publishing a book of poems to distract from this:"

91